Shoveling Snow
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: A post-Winter Finale fix-it ficlet featuring Spinner!Rum. Prompt was "Shoveling the driveway."


It isn't easy to shovel a narrow path from the doorway of his humble cottage to the main thoroughfare, but Rumplestiltskin manages it the same way he manages most everything in his reclusive life: slowly and on his own.

He takes little rests, leaning upon his rusted shovel, then limps forward to clear away the next bit of snow. He needs this path for market day, and he needs market day for selling his yarn and thread, and he needs to sell his yarn and thread so that he'll have something to fill his belly during the dark winter days ahead.

It is an arduous, lonesome life, but he's never known any other.

It's surprising, then, to hear the far-off crunch of boots on snow and the lilting cadence of far away conversation.

No one ever comes to visit the poor spinner.

But here are two visitors nonetheless, arriving and halting at his gate, staring back at him: a handsome young man with a headful of brown curls and a small, tidy beard, and a pale young lady so exquisite he finds he cannot look at her directly. Instead, he turns toward her gallant companion.

"Hullo!" Rumplestiltskin calls out, raising a gloved hand in greeting, "Are you lost?"

The young man steadies his lady, who sways on her feet, reaching first for her elbow, then leading her through the deep, drifting snow to stand before the spinner where the narrow path is cleared.

"No, not lost," the gentleman replies (for he must be a gentleman; his clothes are elegant and well-made, and he escorts this fair lady), "We've been searching for you."

"For me? Whyever would you come searching for me?" Rumplestiltskin glances down at his patched, threadbare clothing and his twisted leg. Surely these fine people can see he is nobody of any importance?

"We were told you might offer us…hospitality," the fair lady explains, her voice soft and breathless, and he chances a swift glance at her, then ducks his head once more. It's almost like looking at the noonday sun.

"I—why…my home is very modest, but you are most welcome to come in and get warm. Please forgive me for not inviting you sooner." He turns, grasping his shovel, and limps back to the small cottage where his notched, wooden walking staff waits by the front door.

Inside, his guests stamp snow from their fine leather boots, and Rumplestiltskin hastens to heat some water for tea. He retrieves his last half-loaf of bread from the bread box and takes out his battered cutting board. He'll go hungry tonight and tomorrow, of course, but the novelty of this visit (and the breathtaking beauty of his female visitor) overshadows this minor inconvenience.

He's gone hungry a great many times.

"Oh, but we brought food, Rumple!" the lady interjects when he brings the crust over to the table and begins to saw away at it. "Please," she murmurs, watching his callused, careworn hands at work, "there's really no need."

And now he looks at her, _really looks at her,_ for however did she learn his name? And his pet name from ages ago, at that? Her complexion is wan, save for the roses blooming high in her cheeks due to the frigid weather, and this poor, lovely creature seems to be struggling to hold back tears.

Who _are_ these people?

"No one has called me 'Rumple' in a very long time, miss. May I ask how you came to know my name?"

He doesn't mean to be impertinent. People of quality may address the poor however they see fit, but, really, who _is_ this lass, that she should speak to him as if they are old friends?

The lady and her gentleman exchange a brief, wary glance, and she carefully replies, "The people in town tell me that you are an excellent spinner. They say your threads are the finest for miles around. We were hoping to see your wares and perhaps…place an order."

She smiles at him, her sea-blue eyes sad and yearning, and it's many long moments before he remembers to answer her: "Aye, yes…of course you may see my threads. It was kind of them that praised my handiwork." He has the oddest feeling that her request—her flattering little speech—was rehearsed.

"My name is Baelfire," the young man interjects, "and this is Belle. We're so happy to…to finally meet you, sir." And the nobleman—_Baelfire_—takes Rumplestiltskin's hand and presses it warmly, looking as though he, too, is nearly overcome with some strong emotion.

"Please," Baelfire says, standing and dashing at his wet eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, "let me finish shoveling your walk while you show the lady what you have on hand." Then the gentleman fastens his cloak and hastens out the door before Rumplestiltskin can overcome his astonishment and beg him not to trouble himself.

Blinking, he turns to Lady Belle.

With a look so winsome and sweet it nearly stops his heart, she reaches out her graceful hand and grasps his, offering, "Perhaps we could prepare a meal together instead. Bae and I brought a wonderful assortment of things to eat. And I'd like to hear a little more about the finest spinner in all the land."

He flushes, stutters, cannot seem to catch his breath or formulate a simple thought, not with her soft, warm hand atop his. Mercifully, Lady Belle squeezes and releases his rough fingers, then stoops to lift her basket to the table. Inside is a chilled, roast capon, two crusty loaves of bread, butter, jam, and three small fruit hand pies. His visitors have even brought a bottle of fine, red table wine. Rumplestiltskin is all agog. Never before has he seen such a fine meal.

Lady Belle is on her feet, searching for tableware, and he's ashamed to call over to her: "My lady, I'm afraid I have only one cup. One plate. One set of utensils." His cheeks are aflame, and his hand prickles where she touched it.

"Well, that's no matter," she says kindly, returning to stand beside him and laying a gentle hand on his stiff shoulder, "Bae and I have traveled a long, long way, and we've become accustomed to using our laps as plates and drinking from the same bottle. If you don't mind it, this will be an informal, family-style meal."

There is something so wistful about the way she speaks of a 'family meal,' that Rumplestiltskin murmurs, hardly thinking, "Have we _met,_ my lady?" She glances down at him, startled, and he rushes to clarify: "It's only that you seem so…_familiar_ somehow. And _no one_ knows me by 'Rumple' nowadays."

Lady Belle worries her pink lower lip with small, white teeth and doesn't reply, glancing out the window at Baelfire, watching as the young man carries the rusted shovel up the walk. A fine, wide path has been cleared. Rumplestiltskin will neither stumble nor struggle on market day.

"Bae," Lady Belle calls out as soon as the gentleman walks through the door, "Your Pa—Rumplestiltskin finds us somehow _familiar."_ They once more exchange a meaningful look, but Baelfire, eying the wicker basket laid open upon the table, replies, "Maybe some supper first, Belle? Some time to talk and rest and…get to know one another?"

She reluctantly agrees, her hand still pleasantly warming his shoulder, making it difficult for Rumplestiltskin to concentrate and puzzle this pair out. He's never been the most canny of men, but he cannot believe they mean to rob him. What has he to take? And yet, they do not seem to be truly interested in his yarn and thread. Just why exactly are they here?

Lady Belle leads him to his chair by the hearth, and Baelfire crouches and coaxes the scant, dying embers to life with a fresh log. These fine people then proceed to _wait on him,_ bringing him food and drink, honoring him with the only plate and cup, and even bringing him a stool for his aching ankle.

While they eat, cross-legged on the floor beside his chair, they pepper him with questions about his past: how did he come to live in this cottage? Does he have any family? Any friends? How did he learn to spin so well?

Rumplestiltskin answers as best he can: He's _always_ lived in this cottage. His aunties taught him to spin, but they're gone now. He has no family left, no friends, only the villagers he visits with on market day. It's a paltry story—a paltry _life,_ really—and he's embarrassed to lay it bare before them.

When the sun has sunk low in the sky and the wine bottle is empty and the leftover food has been tucked away, Baelfire rises, saying, "You've been more than generous with your time. Perhaps we could come back tomorrow morning and…discuss your wares?"

Rumplestiltskin struggles to his feet, feeling a little tipsy and utterly baffled. "It's _you_ who has been generous, sir. Please, let me give you something in return for the fine meal. If you'll just follow me upstairs…"

"Not necessary," Baelfire replies, and he reaches out to grasp Rumplestiltskin by the hand.

Instead of shaking it, however, the gentleman pulls him forward into a tight, sturdy embrace, clapping him warmly on the back and burying his face in the crook of Rumplestiltskin's neck.

Astonished, Rumplestiltskin stands stock-still, looking over to Lady Belle for some assistance. Her enchanting blue eyes are pink and wet, and she is beaming back at him.

At long last, Baelfire lifts his head, loosens his grip, and presses a firm, fond kiss to Rumplestiltskin's unshaven cheek. Afterwards, the young man leans back, staring expectantly.

"I…what…_why_—have we met before?" The poor spinner is at sea, astounded, altogether mystified.

Baelfire's face falls, and he releases his bewildered captive, turning to look at Lady Belle. The smile has left her lips, but her eyes are still aglow with some tender emotion Rumplestiltskin cannot put a name to. She crosses the small room to stand before him and softly asks, "May I?" catching up his callused hands in her own.

Not knowing what she is about, he simply nods, awestruck. The radiant girl dips her head, her gleaming hair spilling over her slender shoulders, and she raises his rough hands to her lips. She kisses his dry knuckles, his callused thumbs, the backs of his wrists, his creased palms, and even his bitten fingernails. When Belle straightens up to look at him, Rumplestiltskin sees that she is weeping in earnest now, tears bathing her full, lovely cheeks.

"My lady," he murmurs, altogether stricken, "please don't cry."

She smiles through her tears and once again asks him, "May I?" cupping his stubbled cheek in her warm palm.

Stunned, he whispers, _"Yes,"_ then watches as the beauty raises herself on tiptoe and leans toward him, parting her lips and capturing his mouth for a gentle, lingering kiss. Her arms slip round his neck, and his hands trace the outline of her slim waist, and she presses closer still, a little sob rising in her throat and her sweet breath mingling with his…

And Rumplestiltskin remembers.


End file.
